A Bard's Tale
by et-tu-lj
Summary: On the road to tournament, Chaucer finds his place in this band of travelers. Will/Geoff, Wat, Roland.


**Author's** **Note: **The writing style is more formal and poetic than the very modern interpretation of the movie, but definitely nothing like the real Chaucer either. Just my poetic interpretation somewhere between the two. Also, this fic references a deleted scene included on the DVD features, but will make sense just fine if you haven't seen that scene.

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**Details (Dreams)**

There is a story here, in this ragged band of travellers, which imparts itself by firelight. I lean back, content with my silence for this night, as I watch the slow revelation. The flame flickers softly across their features, bathing them in shades of purity and youth. I glory in the play of firelight as the tapestry weaves itself.

William is the warm gold of innocence, and his passion paints the scene. He is the radiant glow of fire itself, providing the light that guides the others, leading them onward in this dangerous quest. Though a man that cannot dream must judge this a foolish mission, doomed for failure, a wiser man understands the power of dreams. He is an elemental force, no easier denied than fire itself, and shall burn as constant and true. Until the opposition needs must melt in the heat of his determination, giving way that his dreams might be made reality.

The other men are bathed in the gold of his dreams, yet each provides a new colour to the vision, a new thread to the tapestry. Wat is the angry ember to William's steady fire, ready to flare at any time, igniting into passionate fury, to consume any menace that threatens this weary band in a brilliant flash of rage. Roland, however, is the solidity of shadows, without which the others would have no reality.

As I watch his needle catch the light, a flash of silver in the flickering glow, I begin to see the threads that bind them together. This is not a solitary man's dream of glory, but a band of brothers struggling to rise above their station. Not one phoenix, but three.

And I. Where is my place in this tapestry? I have been welcomed this night. Fed and clothed, as I have not been in days. The patence of nobility is complete, yet they make no attempt to be rid of me. Indeed, Roland toils on my behalf, his flashing needle transforming rough cloth into a coat to keep me warm at night. I have been accepted into this circle of firelight and entrusted with the dangerous truth of their quest.

I have not oft met such men as these, and likely shall not again. God willing, I shall measure my steps to theirs for a time.

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**Desire**

The fire approaches its death; only a few faint embers still glow dimly in the night. The encroaching chill forces my coat close, and I sink into its protective weight with a small, satisfied sigh.

Roland yawns and reluctantly abandons his needle. "Well, lads, I think I'm done for." He forces himself to rise and stands for a moment, searching the night with his eyes. I wish him a good night's rest, using the softly modulated tones of my voice to draw him back from whatever darkness he sees.

His eyes crinkle slightly with the suggestion of a smile as he answers. "And you, Geoff."

Wat makes a soft incoherent sound in his sleep, the cold air drawing an unconscious shiver from him. Roland instinctively stoops down to retrieve the loose blanket, pushed aside by his infrequent movements, and drapes it across his wiry frame. He rests one hand on his fiery head for a moment, but Wat makes no further protest.

Roland watches me across the dying fire, and both of us smile at the familiarity of the moment. Each night is the same, and we draw comfort, I think, from the ritual. I try to resurrect with words the England they have not seen for so long, for I know their long absence from it is a weight upon them. Will speaks of dreams, of valour and triumph that will be ours. And very quickly, Wat sleeps in our midst, content to leave us to our words, for he is a man of action.

For hours, we remain so. The stillness is broken only by Wat's occasional movement and the continuous dance of Roland's needle. The only sounds are the crackle of the fire, the chorus of insects, and our three voices. Until at last, the fire quiets, and we drift into silence along with it.

Satisfied that Wat is cared for, Roland stiffly rises and takes some blankets for himself. He grumbles his way toward the wagon, but turns back halfway. "And William..." His expression is gruff and a little exasperated, but his eyes are soft with affection. "Do try and get some sleep."

I carefully restrain a smile, knowing that this is unlikely tonight, but William merely nods obediently. Roland studies him sceptically, but eventually shrugs in surrender and moves away. He waits innocently, until Roland is tucked away amongst his blankets.

As soon as it is safe, Will turns to me with an exasperated grin of his own. "Does he truly think sleep will visit me this night?" I laugh at his boyishness, wondering if I was ever so young.

He flops down next to me, crossing his hands behind his head as he looks up at the stars. I smile down at him, offering, "No sooner than the moon shall reverse its course and call back the day."

His smile is immediate and absolute, radiant despite the darkness. He is a study of innocence, the perfection of youthful enthusiasm. "It's tomorrow, Geoff. Everything we've been working for." His eyes glitter in the darkness as he entertains the prospect of testing his skills at last. "Tomorrow."

And then, all of that energy is directed toward me. "I knew you'd understand." His eyes focus on me in a moment of sudden clarity, catching just enough of the firelight that the dark brown seems aflame.

Vaguely disturbed by an emotion I can't quite identify, I lean forward to stir the fire, probing it with a long stick until the embers glow brighter, and the wood catches again. This done, I turn back to Will. In the strong firelight, I can see him more clearly now. He lies beside me still, his long body glistening in the night as if he glows from within. He is as radiant as fire, and seemingly produces as much heat.

Since he is enraptured by the mysteries of the stars, I allow myself the opportunity to watch him in silence. By now, I can identify the emotion as desire, and make no effort to loosen its hold on me. I am of the belief that the energy wasted fighting love can be better spent negotiating terms.

And he is beautiful. The graceful arch of his neck as he looks up at the heavens. The golden glow of his limbs. He is sprawled in careless abandon, utterly unselfconscious and at ease, as a maid in that first moment after she has been tumbled in the hay and stripped of all her piousness and pretence.

The underlying strength, not quite threatening in its potential, but exciting and tempting in a way not often found in women. Like a panther soaking itself in the sunshine. Always wary, that it might not be endangered by its repose, but enraptured by the gentle caress of the sun's rays despite its caution. Ready to fight or disappear in an instant, should it be disturbed in its pleasure.

"Geoff?" His soft word pulls me away from my vision, and the fragile apparition of feline and sunlight dissipates into the night. Yet the reality is even more enticing than the illusion: his lithe body more seductive in its strength and grace, the firelight more alive with restless movement. As if it also is eager to learn the planes and angles of his body with its touch.

He is watching me curiously, with a tension in his limbs that bespeaks his awareness that something unusual is between us at this moment. I wonder if, like the panther, he will vanish in an instant, a chimera of desire. I search for words and find myself oddly at a loss. Deciding that I would rather choose the wrong action than not act at all, I lean over and kiss him, my lips resting on his for an instant. Then I pull back a short distance, readying myself for whatever response this might stir in him.

He pushes me away in surprise, but there is no violence in the movement. And he does not vanish, as I had feared. For a long moment, we sit frozen, watching each other warily. At last, his expression relaxes almost imperceptibly, but he makes no movement toward me. Taking that as a surrender, or at least as a cessation of hostilities, I lean down and kiss him again, longer and more urgent this time, but still not demanding until he should give freely.

Then, in an instant, the kiss changes. His mouth is suddenly insistent, tongue questing eagerly for deeper contact, and I allow it gladly, meeting his passion easily with my own. We struggle against each other for a moment, deciding how this encounter will proceed. He is urgent with the need for contact, hungrily arching himself up into me, his youth not yet having taught him the value of patience in such things. I resist for a moment, knowing that his enthusiasm will peak before I can show him all the possibilities offered.

Then I accept, letting him push me onto my back and devour me with his eager mouth and hands. Those lessons will be better taught when he lies loose and languid before me. He is young and strong, and will not exhaust himself before I have had the chance. So I relax into his touch, enjoying the sensual onslaught of what I suspect may well be his first exploration of such things. His touch is molten metal on my skin as he pushes back my coat and strips off my tunic, leaving liquid ripples of sensation across my skin in the wake of his hands.

As the cold air hits my bare skin, I shiver reflexively, but am quickly warmed by his touch. I smile, thinking that I may have chanced upon a poetic truth. While he does not burn from within, his touch is fire, enflaming me with heat and desire until I fear I might combust with the intensity. Then he pulls back from me to tug his own shirt quickly over his head, conscious of only the need to feel flesh against flesh, and not of his own beauty in such a moment.

Before I can form words adequate to describe such a sight, he is on top of me. Although he knows little of technique, he attacks me with such fervour that it matters little. He seems everywhere at once: lips, hands, tongue, and teeth roaming across every available inch of flesh. I have only an instant to process and appreciate each sensation before I am deluged with new ones. So much so, that I am overwhelmed with pleasure, despite his lack of finesse, from the sheer magnitude of his efforts.

Because he has no knowledge of man or woman's body, save his own, he attempts things that few try, stumbling across personal pleasures as frequently as universal reactions. When I arch my neck back, he finds the taunt bit of skin just underneath my chin and bites gently there, so that I am left gasping with shock, before moving on to nuzzle against my collarbone. Then he traces the length of the bone with the delicate tip of his tongue before pressing his lips into the hollow just above. One hand needlessly holds my head still, allowing him free access, while the other begins an agonizingly slow trip downward. His fingers graze across the raised surface of a scar along the side of my rib cage and the sensation sends a shiver through my body. Before the shiver has worked its way out of my system, his hand is hard against my shaft and I let out an involuntary sound of pleasure.

At this admission, he chuckles, and the vibration against my neck is almost more than I can bear. Deciding that he has controlled the situation long enough, I grasp his hips and pull him down, so that we are tight against each other. At the sudden movement, he bucks instinctively into me, startling a low groan from his own throat. His eyes flash up to mine, cheeks flushed as if with embarrassment, but I allow him no respite from his desire. Clasping him to me, I take control of the pace, coaxing more moans from him. Until he shudders against me with a wild cry, and I follow soon after. He collapses across my chest, and we rest boneless against each other while we recover.

When he finally looks up at me again, the fire has dimmed, but smoulders still. Passion is still evident in his expression – the warmth of his eyes; the colour in his cheeks. He smiles lazily and I kiss him on the forehead, laughing, and scarcely resisting the urge to ruffle his hair. He grins, this time more playfully than debauched, and slides off me. He settles against my side, his head resting in the hollow of my shoulder as I automatically move my arm to support him. Nestled against each other, we gradually drift into dreams as we watch the slow dying of the fire begin anew.


End file.
